


Sansa Stark and the Maiden Slayer

by just_a_dram



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Snow White and the Huntsman Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The golden queen sends the maiden slayer to carve out the maiden's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sansa Stark and the Maiden Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> Fic written for the gameofships Get Lucky Porn Battle. Thanks to Simon for helping me settle on a fairy tale.
> 
> Simon also made a lovely graphic for this fic, which you can see [here](http://moderntrickster.tumblr.com/post/56201750778).

He’s sent by the golden queen, who is as beautiful as the day she first had her moon’s blood, though she rails against the changes she sees reflected back in the mirror. She resents alterations in him too; she does not open her arms or her legs to him as she once did. The gold of his hand narrows her green eyes and makes her withdraw her love in a way he had not imagined possible. For they were always one.  
  
Now they are two and separated by a distance that grows with every hammer of the horse’s hooves against the packed, frozen ground, as he drives for the Vale, where spies found the Stark girl hiding. Though the distance grows, something desperate and eager inside of him makes him kick his steed hard, so that he might return with his trophy and Cersei might let him drape her over the bed and fuck her until she digs her nails into his back hard enough to draw Lannister red.  
  
The mirror no longer assures Cersei that she is the fairest of women, and Jaime thought it a lie until he sees the creature before him. Her hair is darkened with dye—it would be more alluring its natural shade of red—a stark contrast with her snowy skin and ruby lips, and he can barely see the courteous maid once intended for the prince behind the soft curves of her hips and the slope of her breasts poorly concealed by the wet shift she holds to herself.  
  
He has surprised her at her bath, slipped through unseen to carve out her heart with his left hand, but as she stands before him with blue eyes gone wide and limbs trembling, he lapses into stillness.  
  
“Kingslayer?” Maiden slayer if he can only direct the dagger clutched in his hand. “Did Tyrion send you?” she asks, her voice breaking, hinging on some vain hope.  
  
“My brother’s head is as wanted as yours, my lady.”  
  
He takes a step forward and she pulls at the shift, frantically trying to conceal herself, as if modesty matters when death is at hand. That is a sort of modesty Cersei will never have. She only despises her nakedness, when she fears it inspires no lust.  
  
“I have no plans to ravish you.”  
  
“You only fuck your sister.” He smirks at that word— _fuck_ —in her pretty mouth. It stirs something in him that mocks the promise he’s just made. He has always been a vow breaker. “I’m a bastard now, I speak plainly.”  
  
She might also be mad: she speaks nonsensically as much as she speaks crudely.  
  
“Then I’ll speak plainly too. I’m here to bring your heart to the queen.”  
  
She tilts her head, glancing towards the door for help that doesn’t come. Her neck is long like Cersei’s, graceful. Easy to snap. Easy to plant hot kisses along its length too.  
  
“No one’s come to save me.”  
  
If he was a knight, a true one, he would rescue maidens, not kill them. That’s what he wanted once—to be a knight worthy of songs. But Brienne is dead and this girl will be dead soon too, and his chance has passed.  
  
“I’m not the knight you were hoping for.”  
  
She chokes on a sob and he stares at the puddle of water beneath her feet, imagining it stained red with blood—the blood of her beating heart or the blood of her maidenhead if Petyr hasn’t taken it already.  
  
“I want to go home, ser,” she begs, as her cool hand closes over the hand that grips the dagger. “I want to see Winterfell. I want to see Jon. I want the North.”  
  
Why can she not have those things? The Starks pose no threat, and he doesn’t understand Cersei’s need for the girl to die the way she needed Tommen’s queen dead. But he didn’t _need_ to understand when he rode to carry out his duty, he only craved the queen’s love to feel whole.  
  
Perhaps he can’t regain her love, any more than he earned it. It was a trick of fate and birth. He was the mirror she liked best.  
  
Perhaps a gesture at honor will fill the void. Perhaps he can pretend to be the knight this little wolf prayed for.  
  
He takes Petyr’s heart instead—the queen won’t know the difference—and when the grateful maid slips her arms around his neck and tucks her head against his shoulder, he feels washed clean.  
  
He promises to come back for her. He refuses to take her life, but there is still blood to be spilled, when he leaves her a maid. He might return. But he’s always been a vow breaker.


End file.
